I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head

My
back was flat against the hardwood floor of a stranger’s kitchen, and my
essence was still contained inside injured flesh. I breathed in. The room
smelled like it had been dipped in dragon’s blood scented oil. The witch’s on to me.

I
let my lids open very slowly, and found an enormous tabby cat sitting next to my
hip. By my feet, a few steps away, stood the black-eyed witch aiming a gun at
me.

I
pulled on my will and visualized my flesh dissolving into energy. I groaned. The
wound the hand of the witch had left in my breast drained most of my essence. I
shut my eyes and put everything I had into the shift. I didn’t mind the curious
eyes of the cat, but having a gun pointed at my face made me kind of nervous. I
tried to shift again. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes and inhaled before
trying again.

“Stop
that!” There was discomfort in the witch’s voice. The gun shook in her hand.

I
searched the kitchen for the body of the fanged woman, who had tried to kill
the witch. It was gone. Why is a flesheater
trying to get her?

The
witch was clench-jawed, glaring at me from behind the gun. Her face was so red
that I expected it to explode any minute. I would be left covered in lovely bits
of rage-full witch. I was in a lot of pain, but the ridiculous image made me
grin.

“What
are you smiling about?” She was breathless, but the flush was dissipating. The
gun hadn’t moved.

“Silly
thought. That’s all,” I said, and used the confusion my response brought to the
witch’s face to push every drop of power I possessed into regaining my energy
form.

The
witch dropped to the floor screaming. The gun fell out of her hand, and went
off.

I
rolled out of the way.

The
tabby remained in the same spot, lying on its side. A dark stain began to spread
on its underbelly.

I
reached for the wounded cat, but the animal vanished before I could touch it.

The
witch was on her knees, her left hand extended towards the spot where the cat
had lain. She was gasping. “Don’t try to change again, please. It hurts. I set
protections.” She pointed at an empty bottle of dragon’s blood oil by her feet.
“I did it before I knew what… who you were.”

“Will
the cat be all right?” I said.

“He
needs to sleep.” She rubbed her left forearm. “Sleep will heal him.”

“What
happened to the—”

“The
woman with the fangs disappeared,” she said. “Back to wherever she came from, I
think.” The witch touched the left side of her chest. “I felt you trying to
come back to me.”

“Oh,”
I said. And the word felt inadequate in my mouth and in my head. My kind went
from shape to shape without ever meeting the one who gave us form. Still, we
spent most of our existence imagining what we would say if we ever met our
shaper.

“They
told me I was crazy,” she said.

“They
who?” I was shaking; joy and angst fighting to best each other inside me.

“The
PCRC,” she said, stumbling up to her feet.

“The
what?” My eloquence got more impressive by the second.

“The
Preternatural Chaos Research Center.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her
left forearm. “I was training at the Mythical Police Academy the first time you
showed up on my chest. I told my instructor right away. He said I was using
magic to make a tattoo appear and reappear, in order not to get in trouble.
Mythical Cadets weren’t allowed to get tattoos.” She walked
to the window.

“You
work for the MP?” I said. “I thought your abilities would gain you a one way
pass into the Mythical Intelligence Unit.”

She
shook her head. “The Mythical Police didn’t believe me. They said I was unwell;
told my family that my magic was wild, out of control. Labeled me dangerous.
Then they locked me up in PCRC until I figured out I had to lie to make them
happy.” She sighed and rubbed her forearm again. “I would’ve gone mad if Terry,
one of the night guards, had not smuggled in Plath, Ortiz and Balthus to keep
me company.”

“I
don’t understand,” I said. Witches who could think energy into shape were very
rare. They were revered by their people, and nearly worshiped by the military.

She
shrugged. “I don’t care anymore. I freelance now.”

“You
went after a flesh… a rogue mythical without backup?”

She raised her chin. “I got Patroclus out of The King of Cats, by Balthus.” She
extended her forearm towards me, and I saw the vivid shape of the sleeping
tabby cat tattooed on her pale skin. “He watches my back.”

“A
cat,” I said. I wanted to shake her.

“Not
just a cat.” She made air quotes. “But the
cat that saved your hide.”

“I’m
sorry,” I said. “You just caught me by surprise. What about me? You thought my shape
out of a painting, too?

“Not
exactly.” She blushed so red that I felt the heat touch my skin. “You came into my dreams
first. Just warm energy that felt really feminine. Then one night, I saw La guitarra de Balthus, by Dario Ortiz
Robledo. The next morning your shape had formed on my skin.” She sat on the
floor, with her hand over her left breast, staring at something I couldn’t see
outside the window.

“Oh,”
I said. Nothing else came out.

“Sometimes,
while I was at PCRC,” she said, “I would wake up to find my breast pale and empty
of you. And with my brain fogged by pills and someone else’s magic, I couldn’t tell
if you had really been part of me or if I had imagined you during the worst of my loneliness. I
remember whispering, I think I made you up inside my head, over and over, until
I fell asleep.”

“I
never knew why I liked ‘Mad Girl’s Love Song’ so much,” I said.

“Sylvia
Plath was the best,” the witch said. “A little mad, I think. But she was still
the very best. Maybe that’s why I’ve let her words soak into my flesh and mark
my bones. Mad minds and all, you know?” She laughed, but there was no mirth in
the sound.

I
shook my head. “You’ve never been crazy. Not even a little mad. You didn’t make
me up. I was me before you thought me into this form.” I pointed at my chest with
a thumb.

“I
don’t understand,” she said.

I
began to crawl to her. She watched me. Her lips trembled. Her eyes shone with
old hurt and new uncertainty.

My
heart—the flesh formed from my energy and her thoughts—beat noisily inside
my chest. I had always loved my black-eyed witch. And I had always been scared
of what that could mean. I just didn’t know if I fell in love with the witch who gave me a tangible
form. Or if the witch gave me a tangible form, after my energy healed the trapped girl who howled and howled, “I think I made you
up inside my head, but you are real, you are real, you are real…”

I pushed my doubts to the side and continued moving until we
were face to face. For the very first time. My kind was not allowed to approach her
kind. Those who were caught trying to contact their makers were unmade and
forgotten. I didn’t care. She was looking at me. Nothing else could matter. I
noticed a hint of honey encircling the darkness of her startled eyes, and I
smiled. Her lips parted for me, but I didn’t kiss them. I got as close as I could
get to her ear, without touching her skin, and whispered, “I am real.”

One of the methods I use when I study a painting that intrigues, is to step into the scene in order to examine it more intimately. I have never (before now) entertained the notion of bringing bits back out with me. But I shall, oh I shall.

I think every time we look at a piece of art that touches us (painting, sculpture, writing...) we take a little out of it and give it a bit of us. It's what creates those wonderful memories that emanate when we think of the work, methinks.

I made a joke in deplorable taste. If something is 'a gas', it's a lot of fun. (The term seems to have come from Irish English and filtered through the Jazz Age). Sylvia shoved her head into a gas oven, during one of London's worst winters, after writing Ariel (published posthumously, I think). I know. I should be ashamed of myself.

Well, my failure to make the connection (and snicker at the sight of a horribly dark joke) attests to how much this toothache is taking out of me. I knew how she died, so I should have deduced what you meant.

Welcome to the Desert of the real ...so very philosophical with little bejewelled koans sprinkled throughout. This is my second encounter with Sylvia Plath today , ( after the bookstore i was in earlier ) , obviously , i must read her . Love your work , mate

I've been rereading a lot of Sylvia Plath, lately. I love the delicious turmoil of her work... so many secrets flying around her words, so many phrases bursting with meanings most of us avoid to see... maybe because they hurt. Yep, I must read her more, too.